


The Sum of His Parts

by ClockWords



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Boys In Love, But it’s pretty light, Cyborgs, Grif is Go Big or Go Home, Grif’s not having it though, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Simmons get hELP, Simmons likes to pretend everything’s cool beans, cyborg-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23090431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockWords/pseuds/ClockWords
Summary: Simmons is falling apart- Quite literally. With Grey overrun with patients from the increased war issues, Simmons feels he has to fix himself.Grif isn’t having that nonsense.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons
Comments: 13
Kudos: 100





	The Sum of His Parts

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write again. A friend of a friend named OrionPrime12 on Instagram gave a prompt of Simmons’ cyborg shit falling apart due to having never upgraded, and trying to hide this fact from those around him so the wouldn’t worry. Naturally, I think it’s a great idea. 
> 
> No beta we die like men.  
> _____________________________________

The war had  _ intensified.  _

The pirate raids were suddenly far,  _ far  _ worse. 

Doctor Grey couldn’t keep up with the amount of injuries, infection, and amputations that took place. 

More people were dying in simple supply runs than anything else, and it was breaking Kimball and Doyle as they try and reroute every supply track. 

They sent squad after squad to figure out the issue; nothing was working, however. 

The hospital beds in the med bays were overflowing, with no extra room to spare. At this point, soldiers were receiving medical treatment with medical equipment in their own quarters. 

And, unfortunately for Simmons, this was restricting him. 

Sarge did his best, back in the day, with what he had. However, the old, outdated tech was at its end, and Simmons did everything he could to hide this factor. 

His arm was the first to spark and twitch. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” 

Simmons felt pain strike at his elbow, where his prosthetic connected his nerves to the system. The pain ran up the rest of his arm like a river, flooding his muscles with inflation. A short fit of panic flashed across his face before he forced the muscles to relax into neutrality. 

“I  _ just  _ fixed it this morning!” He whispers to himself harshly, leaning his shoulder against a wall in the mess hall as his flesh hand grips his elbow. His eyes darted in all directions, scanning for any witnesses, before slipping away to his quarters. 

From there, he got to his desk (which was neatly organized, thank you very much). He opens the metal drawer, then grabs a plastic casing full of tools and maintenance materials. 

“This is the fourth time this week…” he grumbled bitterly as he unscrewed a bolt that connected his prosthetic to his flesh. 

He spent the next 3 hours removing wires, metal, and screws, trying to locate the problem at hand. 

One would think he’d go to Sarge, or, more obviously, Doctor Grey about updating his tech. 

_ There’s no way in  _ hell  _ that she has time to deal with me right now. I just need to figure out what’s malfunctioning, and fix it. It’s gonna be okay, Richard. _

Except this was  _ not  _ the case. 

Simmons was sitting in the mess hall a week later; injuries and death tolls were still on the rise. He picked at his food, Grif next to him and Tucker across the two. 

“Yeah, Bitters is in with Grey, pretty sure he’ll need surgery.” Grif sighs, shoving his face with cafeteria food. Despite the fact that he can’t stand most people, he had taken a liking to Bitters, and hoped he’d be okay. 

“Shit really? Palomo almost had to go in, too. My squad was ambushed yesterday. He’s fine now, though. I think.” 

_ Zzt-! _

“Ow,  _ fuck!”  _

Simmons dropped his fork, metal clattering on the surface before bouncing to the floor. His flesh hand shoots to his left eye, the circuitry sparking until the red light failed to illuminate itself. 

“Simmons? You okay?” Grif raised an eyebrow at his friend, leaning in to get a look. Tucker was just as baffled, as everyone knew that Simmons took care of his hardware and very rarely let it get to any form of a malfunctioning state.

“Dammit, I dunno- it’s… fuck!” He hisses in pain, both hands now holding his eye as he leans away from the table. His good eye was screwed shut in pain, a sudden migraine spreading from his cybernetic eye to the back of his head. 

It was like someone shot a needle from his eye through the other side of his skull. 

A constant throbbing sensation told him to stand up, Simmons’ legs moving before he could think. 

“Wow, hey, do you need help?” Grif stands with him, pulling his legs out from under the table and over the bench. 

“ _ No!  _ I’m fine! I just- I’ll fix it in my room, I’m okay,  _ really.”  _ He waves his hand in protest, one still clutching his robotic eye. Grif narrowed his eyes, but let Simmons go anyway. 

Simmons spent the evening shutting down and rebooting the circuitry that worked his eye, until he could finally see out of it; however, his vision was a little blurry once the eye was brought back online. 

_ “ _ Dammit!” He sighs in defeat, and decided he’d put up with the faulty eye.

  
  


Merely 2 days go by before his leg goes out, too, along with his arm malfunctioning. 

_ Again.  _

It happened as he walked through the hall with Grif, the two returning to their quarters for the night. Which, they shared. 

One moment, he’s walking. The next, Grif has his arm around his chest to catch his fall.

“Dude, what the hell?” 

Simmons takes a moment to asses his situation. 

_ I can’t feel my leg? Or.. or my arm? Oh good. That’s great.  _

One second goes by-

_ … oh god Grif’s holding me and he’s really warm what the fuck- _

_ “Hello?  _ Chorus to Simmons? You there, asshole?” 

Simmons shakes his head to clear it, his flesh hand gripping the arm that held his chest. 

“Um…” he clears his throat. “I- I think my leg just went out?” The worlds tumble out as a question rather than a statement, heat rising to his pale, freckled face. 

Grif’s eyebrows shoot up. “What the fuck? Are you serious?” He pulls Simmons up, letting him rest his shoulder against the wall outside their shared door. Simmons held himself up with his good leg, holding his lifeless prosthetic gently in the process. 

“I can fix it, it’s not an issu-“

“Wait- is your arm out too?”

“Well- yeah. But I can fix it! I’m just behind on maintenance, that’s all.” 

“You’re  _ never _ behind on maintenance. Does it hurt?” 

Simmons tilts his head in confusion. 

_ Okay. I wasn’t expecting  _ that  _ as a question.  _

“I mean, kinda? It hurts for the second it goes out. But I don’t feel anything now. Grif, I’m fine. Just- help me get to my desk so I can fix myself.” He sighs heavily, closing his eyes to try and prevent a headache coming through. 

Grif gave his best friend one last look over, with a suspension in his eye. But he nods and loops his arm around Simmons’ middle. Simmons grunts as he leans his dead weight against Grif, using his good leg to hobble through their shared room. 

And so he goes through the process again; taking the tech apart, turning everything over at least twice to find the error, and correcting it. 

Grif watched as he worked for roughly 20 minutes before passing out in his bed. From then, Simmons had awaited silence, and he was left to let his mind travel in every direction. 

_ Okay… I have a mission tomorrow. I have to get this shit fixed now. If I don’t…  _

He shakes his head, eyebrows knitted as he looks at the open leg on his desk. A lamp light hovered over his workspace, the only visible light in their dark room. 

  
  
  
  


The mission was a disaster. 

It was a lookout mission, Simmons taking his squad over cliffs to scout the area for potential supply routes. 

_ Of-fucking-course there’s space pirates!  _

Jensen was firing round after round, glaring from behind her visor as she took cover. 30 feet behind her, a pirate moved to take her out from behind. Simmons was taking cover right across from Jensen, sitting on the ground behind a thick rock with his back pressed harshly against the side of it. Simmons spots the space pirate from afar as he pulls the pin of a grenade, preparing to chuck it at his attackers in front of him. His eyes widen in panic before he pulls out his pistol. He aims with his prosthetic, watching closely, before- 

_ Clack! _

His prosthetic fell to his side, the pistol dropping before he could even fire with a rough clack to the dirt. 

_ “Fuck!  _ No, dammit, not now!” He cursed to himself, then looked back up at Jensen’s position. With frustration, he grips his useless arm before yelling, “ _ Jensen!  _ Behind you!” as loud as he could manage with guns and grenades going off just 40 feet in front of him. 

But she’s a smart girl, and always listening for her captain no matter the situation. She turned immediately with her pistol at hand, and fired without a second thought. The space pirate fell, dead, with crimson leaking out of his visor and into the dirt of the cliff side. Simmons released a breath he wasn’t aware of holding, gripping his prosthetic tighter in frustration and anger. 

He calls for immediate evac. 

_ Goddammit. We have three dead- I can’t lose another- _

He moves to stand, keeping his head low as he picks his pistol up with the flesh hand. 

_ If I’m gonna shoot with this hand, I’m gonna have to switch positions.  _

He mentally prepared himself, before sprinting with his head down to Jensen’s side. 

_ Click. _

Simmons hit the dirt after making it almost two thirds the way to Jensen. 

His leg went out, completely lifeless against the rocky terrain. Bullets flew past Simmons, and all he could think was  _ oh my god, they’re gonna fucking kill me- _

Jensen was quick to respond, grabbing her captain by the shoulders and dragging him as quickly as she could. Simmons crawled as much as his half-useless body would allow him, moving with only one leg and one arm. 

He was safe, but not without taking a shot to his right shoulder. 

When help arrived, they had already lost 4 more in the squad. 

Jensen and Simmons were all that were left. 

Kimball was  _ livid.  _

After a brief discussion, he and Jensen were released. Simmons’ leg was working again by the time they were evacuated, so he decided to keep his malfunction to himself. 

Jensen has questions, though. 

“Sir? Is everything alright? It was like you shut dow-“

“I-I’m  _ fine.  _ Don’t worry about it. J-just maintenance issues. They’ll be fixed tonight.” 

Jensen stared at her captain, before slowly nodding and accepting the answer. She knew better than to press, so she returned to her quarters. 

Privately, she mourned the friends she lost. 

Losing kids in the squad never got any easier. It hurt Simmons to know practically  _ teenagers  _ died under his command. 

He tried to focus on his cybernetics, rather than the death toll of the day. 

He didn’t mention the bullet wound to anybody, and  _ thankfully _ , he thought, Jensen didn’t see the shot when it happened. 

Simmons wrapped his arm himself, after removing his armor and retiring to his quarters. 

It hurt like hell, but he managed to remove the bullet that lodged itself into the meat of his shoulder. He had sanitation and medical equipment in a drawer, safely tucked away for minor emergencies such as small bullet wounds. 

Grif came in around 11:30 p.m, 45 minutes after Simmons got back. He stood in his civvies, eyes wide and  _ searching.  _

Grif spots Simmons at his desk, a white tank top and black sweats covering his body. The cyborg blinked in confusion at Grif’s desperate movements, the lights out save for the lamp at Simmons’ desk. He was at mid wrap, making eye contact with Grif as he stopped all movements. 

_ “Dude-  _ I- are you okay?” The orange soldier asked desperately, walking quickly to Simmons’ location at his desk. 

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. It was just-“ 

_ “ _ You lost seven soldiers! And- wait, are you… are you wrapping your arm? What happened?” 

Simmons felt like a deer caught in headlights. The panic was rising up, lodging into his throat heavily and preventing his mouth from forming proper words. He swallows, then rubs the back of his neck. 

“I uh… I took a bullet to the shoulder. It’s fine though, I removed the bullet and now I’m wrapp-“

“That’s what the fuckin’ med bay is for, jackass!” Grif’s eyes narrowed dangerously, crossing his arms over his thick chest. 

“Grif, it was a minor fucking injury! Grey is already busy as it is-“ 

“Dude, you fucking count too!” Just as he finished, Simmons’ leg sparks, whirs quietly into the sudden silence, then shuts down. The maroon man winced at the sharp pain, biting his lower lip. 

_ Okay, this is getting fucking ridiculous- _

Grif’s eyes travel to the leg under the desk, then his face transforms into something of realization. 

“...your leg went out during the mission, didn’t it?” 

Simmons knew better than to lie to Grif of all people, _ especially  _ when they had no helmets to conceal their emotions. He already  _ did  _ lie to Grif, when his leg went out in the hallway. 

So Simmons decided to tell the truth. 

“...and my arm.” He muttered, averting eye contact as he did so. 

Grif gave a hard stare, then took a deep breath before speaking again. 

“And your eyes. It looks dimmer than usual.” 

“Okay, so it’s a  _ little  _ blurry-“ 

“You’re going to Grey tomorrow.” 

“Hell no! She’ll probably stick a chainsaw in my leg-“

“You’re going to Grey, jackass!”

“Grif, she has too many people to look over right now! I have to figure this out mysel-“ 

“Oh my god, would you  _ stop being dramatic.  _ She has a team in the cybernetics department, or whatever the fuck it’s called. She can clear you for a stupid check up, and then they can work you over!” 

A small crash is heard, right where Simmons has himself parked in his seat. Both sets of eyes widen (well, 3 fourths of the eyes), then the scrawny of the two slowly turns his head in the direction of the crash. 

His arm fell right off the connections, laying in pieces on the metal floor. The metal palm had 3 fingers connected, the rest scattered into tiny metal bits. The forearm itself was in roughly 2 halves, one larger than the other. Screws, bolts, and wires were thrown everywhere in between. The colorful wires seemed to splash life over the gray flooring, laying motionless as the ends sparked here and there. A screw slowly rolled until it hit the leg of the chair Simmons sat in. 

Grif tilted his head slightly to the side, eyebrows shot up in confusion. Simmons’ mouth was agape, completely lost for words. 

“...did your arm just-“ 

“I’m  _ fine-“  _

_ “ _ You’re falling apart!  _ Literally,  _ dumbass!”

Simmons couldn’t stop the growl that slipped from his throat. “Why the hell do you care? I’ll get it fixed!” The words come out with a cracked voice laced with exhaustion. Silence fell over them as Simmons closed his eyes, moving to rest his head on his flesh hand. He flinched at the sharp pain, remembering he never finished wrapping his shoulder. 

Grif gave him a softer look, a sigh coming out against his will. “C’mere, jackass. You don’t have an arm to wrap it.” 

Simmons, however, ever the stubborn man, narrowed his eyes. “Do you even know how to wrap, fatass?” 

Grif only scoffs. “Do  _ you _ ?” 

Simmons opened his mouth to retaliate, then snapped it shut as he really thought that over. 

_ I mean…. kinda? _

Grif smirked, knowing he’d won. 

“Come here, I’ll wrap it for you.” He gestures for Simmons to follow, making his way to his own bed. Simmons grumbles in defeat, grabbing the rest of the wrapping, gauze, and other medical equipment in his nimble hand before following. 

Grif situated himself with his back against the wall-side of his bed, legs crossed in front of him. Simmons laid out the equipment beside his best friend, then sat in front of the larger man with his shoulder facing Grif. 

“Try not to cut off my blood circulation, idiot.” He muttered, ignoring the pink dusting his own face. 

Grif only smiled at that, grabbing the remaining wrap. He starts the process; up, over, around, under.

In time, silence fell over them again as Grif worked. 

“How did you remove the bullet?” He asks, just 4 minutes later. 

“Remember that time Sarge pulled a bullet out of his leg? Way back in Bloodgulch?”

“Shit, yeah, the guy didn’t even  _ flinch. _ ”

“Yeah… that’s kinda what I did. Just- with more sanitization. Okay, a lot more sanitization.” 

“...really? That’s- kinda badass.” 

Simmons smiles at that, because he knew damn well he was anything  _ but  _ badass. 

“I can tell you right now, I  _ definitely  _ flinched. It hurt like a bitch.” 

“Wouldn’t have if you had just gone to Grey-“ 

“I will kill you right now-  _ ow!”  _

The wrapping was suddenly tightened over the wound, the larger of the two grinning from ear to ear. 

“All done, princess.” His voice taunts, filled with playfulness. Grif’s hands drop to his lap, his grin easing to a smile. Simmons glared for another moment, because  _ he has to get his point across.  _ Then he lets himself fall into a smile, too. 

“...thanks,” the words fell out quietly before Simmons’ gaze dropped to his legs. 

Grif only nodded. A comfortable silence dropped over them like a soft blanket, a feeling of safety in the air. 

He decides now is a  _ great  _ time to check out his best friend. 

_ Because that’s just what bros do. _

Grif examined pale, freckled shoulders the tank top revealed. Still very thin, but he was lean now, after Wash’s  _ ridiculous and completely unnecessary training sessions _ . It also helped that they were always  _ fuckin’ running from somebody.  _

He liked the look.

_ Kinda… like a pole vaulter…  _

Simmons had many new scars, too, however. They went up his arm and shoulders, with a few at his fingers and two across his right cheek. Grif could tell they were fading, however, with how pale Simmons already is. 

But what  _ really  _ pulled the rug from Grif’s feet was the sharp cheekbones that adorned Simmons’ face. They were high, sharp, and left his jawline just as cut. Maybe it was the fact that he was much thinner than most, but Grif didn’t care. He likes the look. 

He likes Simmons. 

“You’re staring.” Simmons said flatly, pink dusting his ears. 

“No I’m not.” 

“Yes you are?” 

They had been dancing on this imaginary line for  _ years.  _ Neither dared to cross it. 

Being thrown over a cliff really tested that line for Grif. All he wanted to do afterwards was hug Simmons. Which, yes, he did. But not like he wanted to. 

Simmons struggles with it, too. He wouldn’t admit it, but he wanted to kiss his best friend more than anything else. 

Grif would  _ kill  _ to kiss Simmons, too, honestly. He grumbled to himself, leaning his head against the wall and stared up at their shared ceiling. The maroon captain let his eyes follow Grif’s neck as he moved. 

They were both tired. Simmons still needs to recover from the massive loss of the day, too. 

A deep yawn escapes the pale man. He picks up the rest of the medical tools, places them on Grif’s bedside table, then decides he didn’t really care about that imaginary line anymore. 

While also watching his arm, he rests on his back, laying his head in Grif’s lap. Said man quipped an eyebrow, but decided  _ if Simmons doesn’t care, then I fuckin’ don’t either.  _

Dark hands card through deep, red hair. They go through an even deeper-colored undercut, blunt fingernails gently and slowly scratching over his friend’s head. 

Simmons, after 15 or so minutes, decides to flip over to his stomach, exhaustion crawling up and draining what little energy he had left. Grif muttered nonsense, then decided to heave the man up into his lap all together. Simmons squeaks in response to the sudden movement, then Grif repositions them both. His solid back was now against his pillows and headboard, a lap full of Simmons to accompany him. Grif’s legs were out, Simmons now straddling his waist with long, gangly limbs.

Heat rose across his neck and face, his injured arm resting on Grif’s shoulder. Grif held his hands at a small waist, thumbs absently rubbing circles into harp hipbones. 

“I don’t think I told you to do that.” 

“Are you complaining?” 

“...no.” 

The larger of the two grinned in response. Grif’s large, calloused hands suddenly hold a little tighter around the pale waist, then lifted him all together and placed his ass closer to Grif’s body. Simmons, in turn, flushed darker than his own armor. 

“Grif-“

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” He said simply, mismatched eyes looking into one green orb. 

Simmons bit his lip, eyebrows knitted in contemplation. Panic was rushing over again, but he forced himself to silence the panic and kick it out the back door. 

He didn’t say stop. In fact, he said nothing at all. Which, to Grif, is permission to continue. 

He didn’t know why, but he felt daring, tonight. 

Grif leans up, capturing pale lips into his own full ones. His head tilted, keeping the kiss slow and deep. His friend (boyfriend??) forced himself to relax, then melted all together. 

Grif kissed just as Simmons imagined he would; slow, lazily, and  _ relaxing.  _ The man worked his mouth slowly, hands sliding up a thin, freckled waist to get under Simmons’ tank top. A tongue slipped past Simmons’ lips, exploring slowly as if they had all the time in the world. 

A soft whine escapes the redhead, and suddenly it was over  _ far  _ too soon. 

Grif has pulled away, internally admiring the thin trail of saliva between them. 

“You’re wounded, and only have one arm.” 

Simmons whined, again, in response. “I don’t care-“

“Promise me you’ll go see Grey tomorrow.” 

It was almost an order rather than a plea. And Simmons knew this. 

“...fine, I’ll fucking check in, asshole.” 

Grif smirked at the victory. He leans in, letting his lips map out a corded, pale throat. His teeth slowly scrape over skin, his large arms going back up and around Simmons’ back. The latter groans softly in response, closing his eyes to the sensations before gently rocking his hips. 

Grif pulls away again, but not until he’s left a deep, dark bruise under the redhead’s left ear. 

He knows his best friend will bitch about it later, but that was for  _ later.  _

“Nope. No more. You need sleep.” 

Again, Simmons whined in protest. 

“Since when did you become the  _ responsible  _ one?” 

“Since you decided  _ not  _ to tell Grey that you’re fucking falling apart.” Grif deadpans, arms slipping away from Simmons and taking his warmth with him. 

The redhead sighs in defeat, knowing that his injury and lack of an  _ entire  _ arm were going to be setbacks. 

“C’mere, lay with me.” Grif muttered after removing Simmons from his lap. Simmons, with his injured shoulder and broken machinery, had to lay on his back. Grif looped his arm across a thin, solid abdomen, pulling Simmons closer as he laid on his side. Grif buried his face in a pale shoulder, mumbling nonsense against the skin. 

“I can’t understand you, idiot.” 

“I said I love you, Richard.” Grif retaliated with his lips against freckled skin, his words still muffled, but heard. 

The man in question has his breath catch at the words. He blamed Grif’s sudden exhaustion for the oddities that came out of his mouth;  _ especially  _ the usage of his first name. 

So, of course, Simmons believed Grif probably wouldn’t remember if he said it back. 

“I love you too, Dex.” The words came out naturally, which surprised the redhead more than anything else. 

_ Probably because this asshole won’t even remember in the morning.  _

His face wasn’t even heated anymore, and instead held content. 

  
  


In the morning, Grif made Simmons check in with Grey. The redhead was scheduled for a quick measuring and eventual surgery in the next coming weeks. Afterwards, Grif had told Simmons to call him “Dex” more often.


End file.
